De La Lune
by herebesherlocks
Summary: The internal musings of Sherlock Holmes. More or less a Sherlock stream-of-consciousness fic. Set between The Sign of Three and His Last Bow.


**Author's note: Not Johnlock. It can certainly be read that way if you squint, but as this is Sherlock's POV, and as I don't think Sherlock would bother to make the distinction (particularly in his own head), nor have I. Though I have used perhaps more candor than Sherlock would. **

**Please let me know what you think! I am particularly fond of this story.**

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This isn't how things were supposed to end.

On those occasions when I turned my mind to the future (contrary to popular belief, that does happen from time to time), this wasn't at all how our comradeship ended. I'd always assumed—vaguely, yes, but with a certain unjustified assurance—that we would be running. I'd be in the lead, turn a corner, and blossom into pain as a gunshot wilted away the night. That, or one of the death threats daily addressed to me would finally find its mark.

I have no outstanding ambitions to die in John Watson's arms, but somehow my brain never produced a scenario that went the other way round.

It's happening now, though. Not death—not really, though my babbling speech of this afternoon did unveil an uncanny resemblance. Both procedures include a church ceremony, flowers, and a certain sinking premonition that you won't see him again.

I never attended any of the funerals, unless you count Redbeard's and my own. There you go. I suppose I died in John's arms after all. And now he's leaving me, in perfect reprisal.

Mary deserves him. I never thought I'd meet a woman who deserves John Watson, but she does. I don't. Heaven knows how he found her. The man attracts trouble like flies to honey. She has secrets, but she's not dangerous. Not to John. I would never lift a finger to stop this. But now that the melody is over the dancing has begun, and I'm no longer needed.

The night air welcomes me back. I move to flip up the collar of my coat, but for some reason my fingers don't cooperate.

* * *

I'm vaguely surprised to find myself back at Baker Street. What did I come back here for?

Where else do I have to go?

Nowhere.

That's never stopped me before.

John haunts this place. Like I did. Dust, half a centimeter thick, across every surface. That's what two years does to an empty space.

I shove John's chair angrily aside and go out.

* * *

Scotland Yard is eerily empty, this late at night. There are watchmen, of course. They're pathetically easy to dodge. I was hoping for a challenge, a case, a bit of excitement, at the very least the threat of arrest, but the place is quiet as the grave. I end up in Lestrade's office, flipping through the paperwork on his desk. Unutterably boring.

The file cabinet is locked and I don't feel like picking it, so I plop down in his office chair instead. I put my feet up on the desk and try to imagine being Grant Lestrade. This is where I could be. This is what I would be, if I played my games on the right side of the law instead of the gray areas at the edges. What is it like to be in that man's mind?

I'm in no danger of finding out.

* * *

Next is Mrs. Hudson. The door is still locked and the light off in the kitchen when I step through the front door. But the doormat, slightly askew, and the stench of lilacs announce her presence as surely as though she'd hung her purple-flowered hat on the back of a kitchen chair. People are always desperate to douse themselves in clues, particularly on special occasions. Small wonder so few of us encounter murders at weddings. John was an exception. He always is.

Mrs. Hudson. The next person I died to save. Time for her evening soother, obviously. I examine the scratch patterns on cabinets in the near-darkness and wait for her to blunder into the dark kitchen for a glass of water. She flicks on the light, screams, briefly. The sound hangs in the air like my own spectral presence. But I'm just dropping by to say good night.

"Sherlock!" The exclamation is as familiar and as tiresome as breathing.

I hold out my arm for a half-hug. I don't know why. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

"But Sherlock, the wedding…you left a good two hours ago."

"Seeking refuge from the public eye."

"But John…"

"I endured a mind-numbingly dull ceremony, delivered a couple of stunningly unorthodox orations, performed rather a moving solo on the violin, and solved his superior's murder before it could occur. John knows where to find me. "

I turn for the door before her eyes can swim with tears again. I've made quite enough people cry today. Can't say I understand it.

"Oh, but Sherlock…"

Pause. Hand gripping the doorknob. "What?"

"Where did you go?"

Half smile in the darkness, because where didn't I go?

I give a standard reply.

"Oh, you know…just an old hangout. Big Ben. I had to think."

* * *

What people call music is really composed—ha ha—of mathematical formulae. Vibrations, shortened or lengthened to please the human ear, drawn out according to some golden ratio.

Probably I could do the calculations if I really wanted to. But there is such a thing as instinct, maybe even passion, which is sometimes more reliable. It baffles them all, still, that Sherlock Holmes the consulting machine can produce anything more harmonious than an insult to Anderson's intelligence. It's music to my ears either way.

I draw the bow across the string. The sound reverberates through the still air, ignored by twisting sunlit motes of dust. It's absolutely lovely.

I must have learned that word from Molly Hooper. Molly. I didn't fall for her—I didn't need to. For some reason she returned the favor anyway.

I can hear myself sigh as I lay the bow across the arm of the sofa. Maybe I'll call her up when I get a case. Or perhaps John will free himself from the throes of marital bliss long enough to come to my aid. I pluck at the strings. This time the sound is short-lived. Maybe I'll flip through old case files. Maybe I'll compose.

I settle for hacking John's blog. It passes the time.

* * *

John was the third person I died to save. Not that he was very appreciative at first, but perhaps the French accent _was_ a bit much. Can you blame me?

I delete the draft and close the blog. I'll write something to annoy him, later. He mustn't forget me too soon.

* * *

Lady Smallwood is desperate. The set of her jaw, the pallor of her face, the tension in her hands tell me all I need to know. She's brought me another dragon, smelling of _Claire de la Lune_. Mycroft disapproves.

"If you go against Magnussen, little brother, you will find yourself going against me."

I hiss back at him.

John pulls us apart. He's always doing that. The British government edges out of the room. He lives to irritate me another day.

John? What are you doing here?

Janine's kisses taste heavier for their innocence. She leaves the flat. I almost have regrets. Molly's blows are sweeter; they're at least deserved.

So much for being different.

What's John doing here?

He looks happy, well-fed, but badly in need of a fix. I know the feeling.

Oh.

_Oh._

Is that what I did?

I thought they were overreacting. They do that a lot.

No. John's anger doesn't come from his medical instincts. It's the soldier. Communication on the battlefield. It's been a month, and I've failed him again.

Well, maybe the drugs were part of it. He's closed to me again, a cold wall; they all are. They still need me. They'll always need me.

But they'd better get over it soon, because his other half is standing before me, swathed in black, pulling the trigger.

The mirror doesn't shatter.

I fall backward.


End file.
